


I'm Not OK

by elioolivercmbyntrash



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Suicidal Ideation, Vomiting, no graphic description, this is dark, trigger warning, trigger warning for self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25132330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elioolivercmbyntrash/pseuds/elioolivercmbyntrash
Summary: Trigger warning - self harm and suicidal thoughts are mentioned, but not explicitly described. Please take care of yourself when reading.Timmy is having a hard time. Armie is a phone call away. Mom to the rescue.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	I'm Not OK

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide hotlines per country -  
> https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html
> 
> This is a work of fiction. I don't know any of the characters.

It's been awhile since he's found himself on his bathroom floor with a razor blade, tracing the faint scars on his thighs with his fingers. He can't remember when he'd last done this to himself. He'd gone to therapy for it when he was a teenager, after his sister had barged into the bathroom because he was taking too long, and found him sitting on the floor clutching a razor blade, cutting into the skin on his thigh.

It's always been his escape route. Well, the razor blade won't work, but he's always taken comfort in knowing that he could just end it all if he couldn't take it anymore. And right now, the world is so bleak and fucked up and what if he never gets to work again? He's still pissed about the play getting cancelled because of the virus, and he knows how selfish it is, because people have died. So many people have died. Places that seemed to come out of lockdown, out of darkness, have started to go back into it. All of his projects are on hold, and he doesn't know if or when they'll start up again. Doesn't know if his career is over.

Without acting, without work, he's nothing. No one. The only thing that keeps him alive, really, is the blade.

These past few weeks have escalated everything, too, and he doesn't think he can play the game anymore. He's seen the comments, followed Armie's and Pauline's advice to stay off social media, where toxic fans pry into his life like they believe they're entitled to know everything, entitled to tell him how he should and shouldn't live his life. But they don't even know him. They only know a version of him, the actor and, sometimes the celebrity he is forced to be. He doesn't need them to spill hate because of some photos and rumours when he has hated himself for as long as he can remember. He's thinking of deleting social media, really. 

Timmy's stomach takes a violent turn and he moves in front of the toilet. He vomits, choking on his pain and his fear. Tears burn his eyes. "I want to die," he says, into the toilet bowl. What he really wants is his mom. He spits and wipes his mouth with his hand. He notices that he's got bits of vomit in his hair, chunks of semi digested toast that he ate an hour earlier. 

He slumps back when his phone starts vibrating. Armie. Timmy stares at the screen; Armie's beaming smile, his ocean blue eyes, stare at him, begging him to answer the phone. The photo was taken in London, when they'd managed to be in the same city at the same time for the first time in months. Timmy lets it ring until it goes to voicemail. 

Timmy washes his face and brushes his teeth. His phone starts vibrating. Armie again. 

"Mm?" 

"You've not responded to my texts, or picked up my calls," says Armie. "Are you alright?"

"Sure," says Timmy. "Why wouldn't I be?" His voice breaks. "I'm fine."

"And I'm the queen of England," Armie says. "Come on, buddy. Talk to me."

"I...I don't know what to say," says Timmy. His voice is going up and down, tears cascade down his cheeks. He catches his breath.

"It's okay," says Armie. "Take your time."

"I can't...I can't do this anymore," says Timmy. His voice is starting to reach pitches only dogs can hear. "I...I hurt myself. I want to die."

"Oh Timmy," Armie says. "I'm here. I'm listening. Do you need medical attention?"

"No."

"Have you got plans to end your life?"

"No," Timmy whispers. He never has made specific plans. He once did a brief Google search for the best method, which only led him to crisis lines that he would never ever call. "I'm pathetic."

"No, you're just having a shit time," says Armie. How is it that he always knows the right thing at the right time?

Timmy whimpers. "So are a bunch of people."

"Stop invalidating yourself. Yes, the world has gone to shit. But don't belittle what you feel right now. You're allowed to feel like shit, you're allowed to be sad and angry. You're allowed to be human."

Timmy sniffs and wipes his eyes. His eyelids begin to droop, and all of his muscles are heavy. He can't remember when he last had some sleep.

"I miss you," he says, his voice hoarse. 

"I miss you too, buddy. I wish I could go and see you and give you a hug."

"We'd need to get tested first," says Timmy. 

Armie chuckles. "I might not be able to be there now but someone else is coming."

"What? Who?"

"Your door will go at any second," says Armie.

As if on queue, Timmy's door buzzes. He stays on the phone as he answers.

"Honey?"

"Mom?"

"Can you let me up?"

"Oh my God, yes," he says. "Did you arrange this?" He asks Armie.

"We all staged an intervention. Anyway, buddy, I know your mom wants to hug the shit out of you. Later!"

"Later," Timmy says. 

There's a knock on his door, and Timmy opens it to his mom. He realises that he must look like a mess. He's wearing a T-shirt which has vomit and snot on it, and he's got vomit in his hair. He cuddles himself, looks at the floor.

"Sweetheart," his mom drops her bags, throws her arms around him, and kisses him on the cheek. She smells floral. Timmy sinks into her and begins to sob. 

"I'm here now," she says, rubbing his back. "I'm here." 

"I'm sorry. I cut again."

"Oh, honey. Let's take care of your physical needs first, shall we? Go and take a shower, and I'll make us something to eat. You look like you need a good night's sleep, too."

Timmy lets her take care of him. She prepares chicken and dumplings while Timmy takes a shower, and they eat together on the couch while Friends plays on the TV. 

"Do you want to chat, honey?" she asks.

"Maybe tomorrow," he says, leaning into her and resting his head on her shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> As a suicide attempt survivor and someone who struggled with self-harm for well over a decade, I just want to say if you are currently experiencing distress there are people who understand and who have been there and who want to listen. Please reach out to someone. It's OK to feel what you feel.


End file.
